About Time
by wryter501
Summary: Through it all, Arthur watches. Across the ages, through tears and screams, through smiles and exhaustion and blood, through friendship and consolation and love and more tears, through darkness and despair and the endless heavy cycle of seasons… After Camlann and while Merlin waits, Arthur watches. Part 2: Time Was - Merlin reacts and adjusts to Arthur's return. No slash.
1. About Time

**A/N: Oh. Oh, look, the angst tag seems to apply to this one! Because my muse seems to take anything 'I haven't done' as a personal challenge, and because so many people seem to consider Merlin's immortality a punishment, (and because I'm currently between multi-chapter projects) we had to write this one. Merlin through-the-ages, Arthur pov.**

 **About Time**

Through it all, Arthur watches.

Across the ages, through tears and screams, through smiles and exhaustion and blood, through friendship and consolation and love and more tears, through darkness and despair and the endless heavy cycle of seasons… Arthur watches.

It begins the moment Merlin touches Arthur for the last time, there in the boat. _Rest in peace_ , spoken in magic and sorrow.

Already he is watching, standing there in the shallows which made no rings around legs that stay dry, on the opposite side of his own funeral craft. Watching as his manservant – sorcerer – friend – releases his body to the boat, to the lake, to the unknown and invisible depths. To the heights of heaven or the bowels of the earth or somewhere in-between.

 _Avalon_. A place or a concept or both.

He sees tears in Merlin's eyes, and doesn't try to speak because the moment is exquisitely fragile, and though he is new to this, already he knows that his friend can't see him. Won't hear him. These are the first tears of many, those twin diamonds poised against that fathomless blue. A veritable sea of emotion.

Arthur sees grief – sorrow and loss and loneliness and regret and guilt – and it's only the beginning. Only the first bitter taste of a bottomless draught.

He watches Merlin struggle, that first lifetime. The pain is near, and the memories are both sharp and fond, but the gradually-accumulating years still lie lightly on the shoulders slightly bowed under the familiarly worn brown jacket. When there are still friends who know. Who remember, also.

Arthur watches Merlin take comfort, in those years. His friend still smiles, in those years.

Then he watches as Merlin realizes what he himself vehemently denies, when he questions his keepers. _How long? Will I go to him, or will he come to me?_

He watches Merlin deny and yet absorb the incontrovertible answer, also.

Neither. Never.

He watches Merlin slowly cease to reject the truth and meaning and opportunity and horror of _Emrys_. Tears wet Arthur's cheeks then also, during that time, silent and without solace.

It is Merlin's reward – the hope of reunion. The second chance. It is Merlin's punishment also – Arthur can't help but see it like that, though no one here ever terms it so – to wait without knowing. Without being able to see the end. A race with no finish line; no signs to search for, like the turning of the leaves or the melting of the snow.

Later, when history becomes legend becomes myth, there is no one left even to encourage Merlin that his belief, his hope, is not delusion. There is only the fact of life inexhaustible. Death ever elusive.

That is Arthur's reward, then, to see his friend. He is granted the perception of drawing near, almost to touching, the relief of releasing his own emotion verbally, his eyes fully upon the person he speaks to – abuse and encouragement and truth and secrets. But it is Arthur's punishment also, that never can Merlin share that perception. Never see him, never hear or feel or answer him.

And when despair and doubt occasionally creep upon Merlin unaware, close enough finally to take him captive from behind – cold dark smoky tendrils unnoticeable til they are inescapable – when he rocks upon whatever bed he is using at the time and squeezes his knees into his collarbones and sobs. When he screams and grips fistfuls of his hair hard enough to loose a few strands and can't breathe for the agony of loneliness.

Then it is Arthur's reward to whisper encouragement – his punishment that it will not be heard.

Understanding, it is explained to him. Comprehension and recognition. In life, he had constantly overlooked and underestimated his servant. He'd seen but the surface, infrequently disturbed by a ripple that was easily disregarded again. It mattered not whose fault it had been, all the secrets that drew the veil between them in their first lifetime – Uther, Arthur, Gaius, Merlin himself. Morgana and every enemy sorcerer.

Arthur had not known his friend. His guardian angel, once acknowledged in words… but only once. And never recognized.

So now, he watches. And learns. Now, he is Merlin's guardian angel, though he can't see that it does his friend any good. He can't effect protection for his powerful sorcerer – not that he needs it physically, except from himself – or offer tangible soothing comfort for his spirit. He can't hear any advice Arthur gives, no matter how loudly he shouts or how quietly he whispers, no matter what words he uses.

He watches Merlin find purpose and work hard. Help and heal and build and serve and achieve – and fight – until it feels like his chest will burst with pride in his friend, and he wonders how he ever could have thought his servant lazy.

Sometimes he watches Merlin withdraw. Watches him choose oblivion in so many substances, changing with the years – solid, liquid, vapor – that he himself loses count. Then, he watches silently. There is sorrow that he feels also, deep and limitless and nearly unbearable, and compassion very close to pity, but no blame. Merlin is very strong, and tries very hard not to change, but he is only human, after all.

So to speak.

He watches certain men, whose character inevitably reminds him of his closest knights, come alongside Merlin in friendship. Like Lancelot with enduring compassion, like Gwaine with persistent cheer. Like Percival with indefatigable patience and Elyan with dependable calm and Leon with stalwart devotion. He wishes, when these times come to an end and Merlin says goodbye again, that he could meet these men and thank them.

But he is not in the same place as that to which the ordinary dead travel.

Sometimes, he misses the others, too. Especially Guinevere, widowed so young and ruling so wisely alone. But they all have each other, where they are, and he has only, always Merlin. And Merlin has no one.

Sometimes, Merlin has someone. And then Arthur looks away, when Merlin shares his bed with a woman, by accident or design – hers or his – for a night or for a generation. He respects his friend's privacy in those times, but he also comes to know, very early on, that the vulnerability of the dark and the surrender and the emotion of the act of physical love and connection, more often than not prove too much for Merlin's fragile defensive composure. Often Merlin weeps in the aftermath of these moments, and Arthur never watches to see which women try to understand or comfort, which turn away, which Merlin hides himself from, before the dam breaks.

There are never any children, though. For whatever reason. Arthur can't tell whether Merlin considers this a blessing, or a curse. But there are never any children.

Arthur watches Merlin handle the blades, sometimes when he is alone and the end of his rope forms a hangman's noose. Even after proving over and over that they cannot grant him death. He watches him inflict pain on himself, on his body, his movements patient and almost distant, freeing the blood to trickle over his skin, drip earthward, warm though Arthur cannot feel the temperature or the wet.

He understands that it seems the only distraction or easement possible from the desperate unending misery inside. He knows, because he feels it himself – only he has no body to cut and mar and punish, and he himself always turned those feelings outward in active rage to exorcise. When Merlin passes out, Arthur touches the torn flesh, yet unfeeling, and watches his friend's body close itself, sealing life within the vessel, hiding the evidence of pain once again. Although, without really _healing_.

Sometimes he watches Merlin hurl himself into several days' coma-sleep, with enough drugs to kill several times over. And then wake, eventually. Every time.

He watches Merlin wake from countless nightmares that betray an ordinary night's sleep, screaming into the dark. Begging. Cursing. Apologizing.

Begging again.

Often, Arthur finds himself echoing the sentiments, feeling the pain as he can't really _feel_ anything else, even though he is not acknowledged either.

Very rarely - and only on the one night when the old year dies and the new is born, when even the veil between Emrys and his lost king thins – when he speaks, Merlin lifts his head. He cocks it slightly to one side – whether his hair is black and shaggy or shorn or bleached or unwashed or spelled to gray like his beard – and sometimes looks around the room. Sometimes Merlin speaks also, in the quiet and exhaustion of the unique and dreadful burden he cannot even choose to put down. Arthur answers him, always, moves to place himself wherever Merlin's eyes land.

Arthur _promises_. Always. Though he doesn't know when or even if he will be able to keep these promises.

Sometimes it seems to comfort Merlin, to relax him. And sometimes he stands and goes for another bottle, to fog his perception unmercifully. _Very_ rarely, he smiles and keeps speaking until he falls asleep at last. Sometimes, he smiles in his sleep.

Merlin walks beside the lake, occasionally, in one guise or another, and Arthur – though he watches as _centuries_ pass - cannot figure what causes him to go, or what keeps him away.

He learns and accepts how this existence does and does not work, what he can and cannot do, but always he walks beside Merlin, beside the lake. His legs never get tired and his feet never get sore and neither of them ever say anything, though sometimes Merlin halts at a certain point, as if helpless to resist. And sometimes he looks over the water.

Sometimes Arthur slings an arm over his shoulder as they walk the shore, though neither of them actually _touch_ the other. He comes to recognize when this seems to help his lonely companion – and when it doesn't.

Arthur watches changes come and go. In Merlin, and in the world around. He experiences progress with Merlin, feels the same wonder and amused disbelief and disappointment. Feels the impatience, always.

 _I want to stop watching, and start sharing. All of it, good bad indifferent._

 _Not yet_ , he is always told. _Not yet._

Until he wishes for his sword and a corporeal hand to wield it. An enemy – or just the semblance of one – to batter until surrender is forced and he gets his way. Because there is no other way to effect his will; it takes Arthur a very long time to accept that. It is not in his nature to admit helplessness.

And one night, when Merlin is motionless in oblivion, tangled on and in his bed, and Arthur moves about the dim room, passing his hand over and through Merlin's clutter – because some things, after all, never change – he tips a bottle over.

One of pills, this time, and nearly empty.

Arthur doesn't question it. Doesn't initially give it much thought, in case it's an anomaly, and doesn't last. Simply picks up the bottle and disposes of it with other discarded garbage.

Then he carries on cleaning, whimsically reflecting on the turnabout of roles and feeling almost privileged to provide the care for his friend. Maybe for the sheer novelty of being able to touch and move even inanimate objects, again - things thrown away, things taken to another room for easier cleaning, things organized.

Even, he straightens the sheets and blanket on the bed as much as he can around the body of his friend, feeling very paternal to do so. Merlin mumbles at the disturbance and rolls, still sprawled, face mashed into a flat pillow and probably drooling.

When Arthur sits, the mattress depresses beneath him. He takes a moment to note that his body feels unusually heavy, even tired, after millennia in Avalon, and when his stomach pinches he laughs to realize it for hunger, another sensation almost-forgotten.

Merlin mumbles something that sounds like a question. He often talks in his sleep.

"Nothing," Arthur answers, as he sometimes does, hazarding a guess to interpret. "I'm just hungry." Isn't it glorious. And silly. And perfect.

"Y're always hungry, 'Rthur," his friend slurs. And another word that just might be _fat_ – or maybe _prat_ \- but Arthur ignores that.

He scoots down in the bed so the extra pillow is bunched under his head – plenty of room for two, and far better than many a night they'd spent out-of-doors, on the ground and huddling together for warmth. Sleep whispers a siren's song, novel and sweet and strange to contemplate, and he knows he's going to succumb, himself. In a moment.

"Merlin," he whispers, and his friend grunts in less-than-half-awake reply. "I want you to know, I was always with you. I know what you've been through. I felt your pain and I saw your courage, my friend. I don't know what the future holds for us, but… I am with you, now."

Merlin sighs and rolls back to the middle of the bed, where his raised forearm lies alongside Arthur's upper arm, and his bent knee nudges the side of Arthur's. Once, it would have been uncomfortable for him, embarrassing for Merlin to wake and realize.

Except, he feels a calm and a surrender more complete and natural than any Merlin has experienced since they last touched. Not the strongest of narcotics, not the most extreme exertions, had ever achieved this effect, for his friend – the waiting is over, though Merlin doesn't yet consciously comprehend it.

In the morning, he thinks, Merlin is going to be angry that Arthur hadn't woken him immediately. Well-rested, but furious. In the morning, there will be shouting and crying and – yes, even hugging. There will be sunrise and breakfast.

In the meantime, Arthur relishes the contact and tactile proof of this new truth that is far beyond any reward. Something solemn, even holy.

Two sides, reunited.

"T'ss," Merlin sighs, " 'bout _time_."

Arthur snorts softly. Then, drifting toward slumber, he closes his eyes.

 **A/N: This, in a humble way, in memory of today. 9/11.**

 **I rather prefer a version of Merlin's waiting that involves unconscious rest, not the living awareness of waiting and time passing. Because there is so much time, and so many experiences, it's difficult to write specifically when that sort of immortality is a given. It's hard to get into what that would do to a person's psyche.**

 **And, there is the problem of returning!Arthur, how he'd adjust to a modern lifestyle, how on earth he and Merlin could/would be close after** _ **so much**_ **time spent apart…**

 **So here's me trying to reconcile this stuff! And appease a muse hijacked; now that the short crazy ride is over, I can get back in the driver's seat…**


	2. Time Was 1

**A/N: This chapter is, Merlin reacting to Arthur's return – next (and final) chapter will be, Merlin adjusts to Arthur's return. That one is done, so it should be up in a few days…**

 **Also, warning for mention of self-harm, though the next chapter is worse…**

 **Time Was (part 1)**

On occasion, Merlin resists waking, and clings to his dreams. That usually happens whenever he dreams of Arthur. Because sometimes it's hard to recollect clear memories, awake.

And it scares him – not to death, though he may wish it – scares him to his bones, the thought that bits and pieces will get lost somehow in the process of recollection. Disappear, more and more of them. Til there's nothing coherent, and then just… nothing.

He's dreamed that he's lying in bed – his body knows this is true, so on a subconscious level, he accepts the dream as _truth_ , though he knows he's dreaming – and that he's just heard the front door of the apartment close. Through the tiny front room, down the short hall, into the bedroom. He dreams he heard footsteps, even on the carpet, the whisper of clothing _familiar_.

The sound stops in the doorway. He dreams he blinks, once, at a broad-shouldered, golden-haired figure leaning there against the painted trim – not entering, just watching him.

Conscious and awake, he might claim to still believe Arthur will come back, someday. Because he couldn't imagine denying it out loud. But, conscious and awake, deep down, he's stopped _believing_. Only in dreams does he still envision it actually happening. And then it's never true, and destroys him all over again.

He senses sunlight – the morning, the day – against his eyelids, and knows, his body on the mattress and pillows is facing the window, not the door.

It's a dream, there's no one there.

Part of him wants to stay dreaming. Another part fights to roll over and open his eyes, convinced that Arthur is standing right there – _right freakin' there_ – just waiting for Merlin to roll over and open his eyes.

His eyes drag open involuntarily, inevitably. Blinded by the sunlight, fighting to adjust, and all through him is a horrible black hole of emptiness, where hope and despair claw at each other in a never-ending, unwinnable war – trying to come out, trying to bury one or the other or both together. If he'd had more to drink, last night, if he'd eaten something too greasy or too sweet, he'd be vomiting right now onto whatever was on the floor beside the bed because he couldn't afford to get it on the carpet. Which was ironic, as long as he'd had to accumulate savings, he really was broke, at the moment.

And… he sees that his floor is clear of clutter. That's odd enough to drag perception up from his stomach to his brain.

The daylight soothes him. Another day, no different than the rest. Better than some, worse than others. Endurable, because what other choice does he have? Bury it in the avalanche of all those days still to come…

Then, someone shifts in bed next to him, behind him, and he freezes. He doesn't remember having brought someone home. Last night, what happened last night, was he even out? He's afraid to look –

And then the person lets out a deep, unflattering – and therefore masculine – grunt.

Holy _cows_. A man? A _man_ in his bed, howin _hell -_

Merlin pushes himself up on one elbow to clear his pillow, turns his head to look-

And stares. A minute or an hour or a lifetime or longer. Because he knows that jaw, that nose, the cheekbone and the flop of straight straw hair blending with the eyebrow just above closed eyes.

Gosh and golly. It finally happened.

Took long enough.

True insanity.

Not the self-doubt crap he's struggled with, before. That usually he can cure with a sharp blade to the wrist. And wake up in a bloody bathroom without even a scar to show for it. Still alive, still waiting, therefore he _is_ who he _thinks_ he is.

Merlin, the great magician, the great failure, cursed to wander the earth forever and never able to atone. Like Jacob Marley, wearing ponderous and invisible chains.

He turns his face away. Moves the sheet and blanket so he won't trip in trying to get out of bed. Swings his feet to the carpet, moving carefully so the mattress doesn't jostle Arthur awake – insanity, remember, there's no one there to wake – stands and crosses to the window.

He looks out at the cemetery in the valley, the peaks of the mountain range beyond. Sears his eyeballs to tears looking at the sun reflecting from buildings beyond the graveyard, nestled in the foothills. Blinks and sends them down his cheeks at the sound of another grunt and sleepy rustle.

Turns. _Looks_ another long moment, before he puts his back to the wall, and lets his legs give out. He sinks all the way to the carpet, but it doesn't put him low enough to hide the top of the mattress from view, or who his broken mind tells him is on it.

Helplessly he watches Arthur wake up. Memories tear through him, fresh and burning, all the familiar that he thought he'd forgotten. If it's a dream, he doesn't want to wake. If he's finally, finally lost it… he doesn't know how to keep from finding it.

Arthur rolls to get an elbow under him, pushes up to sitting and slouches forward over knees bent and sprawled apart. He rubs his eyes, then his face; every movement is _sharply_ unbelievable, and Merlin can't look away, visually devouring his king, his friend, the reason for his _being_ …

He puts a fist to his mouth to keep silent, bites his knuckle very hard because if he's going to wake at all, he wants it to be now, before-

Arthur looks at Merlin, awareness dawning on his own face. And for seconds – minutes – centuries – they stare at each other. Then Arthur's eyebrows shoot up, and his mouth pulls sideways in a hesitant grin.

"You can see me," he says.

The words crawl inside Merlin's ears and melt, soft and warm and deadly and vital as blood. That voice. After all the voices he's ever heard, sometimes he's wondered, would he pick it out of a crowd blindfold. Now he knows.

But, the words don't make sense. Oh, right. Insanity it is.

"If this was going to happen," Merlin whispers mournfully, "why couldn't it have happened right away?" _Delusional_ might have been a far more comfortable way to spend his time.

"You mean me coming back?" Arthur yanks the blankets away, scooches to the edge of the bed – the mattress dips exactly as if he's actually sitting there. "I asked them the same thing, they wouldn't tell me. _It isn't time yet_ , or some such nonsense."

"No, not –" Merlin shakes his head. Dazed and confused because – _return? they?_ – "I mean…" He clicks his tongue, and circles his ear with his forefinger. "Not that I'm complaining, if it's going to last – _godinheaven_ make it last –"

He chokes his voice back before a sob or a scream can escape. He will if he has to, one or the other or both, but it's usually after at least an attempt to control himself.

"I think –" Arthur says hesitantly, glancing around the room before pushing himself to his feet. "I think it's going to last. It's for real, if you can see and hear me. They wouldn't be this cruel. I don't think." He takes a few steps, twisting to face the empty air of the room, even as he approaches Merlin, crouched on the floor by the base of the wall next to the window. "I can stay, right? I'm back for good, for some reason? Don't do this to him, now, okay?"

When there is no answer, Merlin is half-surprised, and doesn't know why. But Arthur is looming, the carpet depressed beneath his socks – Merlin thinks, jeans and white t-shirt, Arthur never wore those how did he get those not mine because he wouldn't fit my size – and he scrambles sideways for the corner.

Arthur stops, staring at him again.

Why did that happen? Merlin doesn't truly know. It only seems to him, if Arthur touches him, he will break wide open and all those cracks he felt in the making – long dark lonely nights when every ticking second was an eternity and a half – would pour blood and memories and bits of his melted soul like the cuts in his arms did, gushing and gouting and killing him for good this time, no unconscious sealing of traitor flesh.

Slow down. Just slow the hell down so his mind doesn't _shatter_.

"Merlin, it's –" Arthur takes another step and kneels, blocking him in the corner with his hands raised like he's surrendering, but still advancing. "It's me. This is real. I don't know how or why, but I'm here. I always have been, actually – well, mostly, but –"

"Don't touch me!" The words burn Merlin's throat coming out because _oh_.

He has _waited_ for Arthur to touch him and it's happening too fast, he's not ready Arthur is going to realize how miserably imperfect he is, and draw back and that will be unbearable. _Please_ …

Arthur is touching him anyway. Merlin feels hands, heavy and warm and strong, on his shoulders. He can't escape; he turns his face to the wall and closes his eyes to retreat – _dreams, insanity_ – and Arthur's fingers pull him insistently closer, enough to get round the back of him even though he's resisting and his knees and fists are still between them -

Why? hasn't he waited forever for this? why is he so stiff?

\- and pulls him close enough for another sense to attack Merlin like a damn tank, broadside and crawling over him with hard ridged tracks.

Because now he can smell Arthur.

Faintly woodsmoke. Faintly, _faintly_ , the blend of oils and polishes used for armor, weaponry, tack. His smell makes Merlin think of sweat and the woods, sunshine and horses, without actually smelling any of that.

He's completely unprepared for this, what this sense does to him, a memory he didn't even know he had, and suddenly his hands are fisted in Arthur's plain white t-shirt and his nose is buried in the crook of Arthur's neck and he's inhaling like a starving man in a bakery.

Each exhalation is a sob. Five or six of them, he doesn't know, until they're _voiced_ sobs – and then screams. Loud, or silently hoarse, he's too far gone to tell, but Arthur doesn't protest – Merlin is protesting, expressing his pain and the invisible scars of loneliness and the unending ache of his crippling burden. And it doesn't help – it never helps – but it relieves, and it exhausts, and sometimes it's easier to endure when he's exhausted and doesn't _try_ anymore, only exists…

But hanging on to Arthur's clothing isn't enough. He surges forward, grasping and gathering and close isn't close enough, he needs to be inside Arthur's skin. But that's impossible, so he settles for his fingers on the pulse in Arthur's neck, his other arm octopused around Arthur's ribs to breathe with him, Arthur's air stirring strands of Merlin's hair, in and out without stopping, without leaving him.

He settles – finally – and realizes Arthur's talking to him, babbling nonsense meant to soothe. First he only listens to Arthur's voice, the repetition that doesn't leave him, before hearing words in a tone of voice he's rarely heard Arthur use. As if Arthur himself is close to tears.

 _It's all right, I'm here, I understand, I missed you, I missed this, You're all right, We're all right. I'm back._

Time was, Merlin would have resisted Arthur's sympathy and comfort, would have hidden his need for such from his prince and king. In Arthur's mind, anyone who needed it was somehow weak or less. And Merlin had gotten used to hiding everything.

Except, that was a _long_ time ago. And there is a certain point in any experience of trauma, when the person involved ceases caring what anyone else thinks, and simply survives the best or the only way they know how.

So Merlin speaks, too.

"I hate you I hate you, you left me and I missed you and I failed you, I'm sorry it was my fault all my fault, what took you so long, I've been waiting I've been _waiting_ –"

His throat is raw and his entire chest is burning with each breath and he'd always thought this – _this_ – would fix him. He knows he's not all right, not really, not deep down – how can he be, men are not meant to last this long or endure this exquisite sort of torture. Even when times were good, his loss and his waiting resided like a shard-in-the-chest of his own. Such an immense failure, and centuries of waiting to make it right, and now he doesn't know _how_. Doesn't believe he _can_ , anymore.

And still he hurts. Arthur's presence now makes the years of loneliness hurt more, somehow. Why so long?

 _You should have come back_ sooner _, before the damage became irreparable…_

"I've been waiting. So. Damn. Long." He whispers, energy spent, each word an effort.

Arthur shifts so that they're next to each other in the corner of the room, his arm still around Merlin's shoulder, their knees crammed together. "I know," he says, intense and gentle at once, and Merlin ducks his head away, unable to bear that blue gaze from his king, who every time gave his all in a way that made his men give so damned much in return, and feel privileged to do so. "Merlin, I know."

He doesn't understand. At times he's considered incidents and events in his very long life dispassionately, thinking, _what am I going to tell him of_ this _, someday_. But he hasn't thought that, for a while. There's so much. There's too much.

Arthur's stomach interrupts his thoughts, growling with unmistakable hunger, and Arthur chuckles in a way that tells Merlin he's a bit embarrassed.

 _See, you haven't forgotten, you do remember him._

"Hungry?" Merlin suggests, turning his head to wipe his face on his own t-shirt. He realizes that, for as often and as many plans he's made over the years, what he would _do_ , when Arthur returned, he has no idea right now, how he's supposed to fill the time. Sit around talking? Neither of them had ever been much for that, although he supposes it's going to have to happen sometime – he has so much to tell – and so much he never wants to –

Arthur pulls back from him, and for a moment, something inside Merlin that cares nothing for logic panics. He instinctively feared and avoided Arthur's touch, but now it seems to him that if Arthur _stops_ touching him, he never will again. Merlin checks this thought with an effort to be logical.

"You're always hungry," he adds, covering whatever expression might have revealed his reaction to Arthur – as he always had.

But Arthur is turning away to push himself to his feet. "You would be too, if you had to wait fifteen hundred years to actually eat food again."

Merlin scoffs as Arthur reaches a hand down and yanks him to his feet. Because – fifteen hundred years. One of his worries had become, telling Arthur how much time had passed. Somehow, though, he already knows. "Well, you certainly don't look the worse for the diet."

"Thanks very much." Arthur flashes him a grin that breaks his heart.

Literally. He feels it – and dammit, why is it hurting? Shouldn't that smile stop it all hurting? _So long, I've wanted that, and didn't have it and couldn't have it –_

Maybe it's like the cold. Too cold for too long, and the warmth dreamed of and longed for and needed, hurts initially.

"I've got…" He leads the way to the doorway of the bedroom – noticing that it seems to have been tidied – "Mm, not sure. Not much, and nothing fancy…" Arthur used to have what, for breakfast? Roast chicken, sometimes. Biscuits and sausage – he could probably run out to McDonald's, honestly –

"Don't do fancy," Arthur says from behind him. "Please. I'm not…" Merlin pauses and turns, but not quite to facing Arthur. "I'm not royalty, Merlin. I'm not your master anymore."

Once he thought he'd have leaped for joy and laughed out loud to hear Arthur say that. Now, it makes him feel a little lost.

 _Yes, you are, and always will be. Happy to be your servant til the day… and all that. Haven't died yet, you see. 'Course I'm your servant why else would I have waited I had to it was my duty and destiny and atonement –_

"I'll prove it," Arthur says, maybe mistaking his hesitation. "Go on and use the bathroom first." He even gives Merlin a little shove through the narrow door.

Merlin bangs his shin on the toilet, reaching automatically for the light switch. Closing the door like he's always done, even though he's almost always alone, because it always feels too weird leaving it open. Mechanically, he goes through brief morning routines – hyper-aware of indoor plumbing today - and pauses at the sink.

Avoids his own eyes in the mirror-front of the medicine cabinet, like he almost always does, who _looks_ at themselves anyway? – and opens the door.

First aid stuff. Haphazard and negligent and more for mess-cleaning and containment, than any actual care for wellbeing. Pills, then. Cough and cold stuff. Pain relievers that couldn't touch _mind-soul-heart_. Anti-depressants that tried. Sleeping pills.

Shaving stuff. Often he uses an electric razor he can plug into the jack in his truck, clean up his chin and jaw on the way late in to work. But he still has a straight razor from way back when. He's kept it in good condition. It's seen a lot of use.

But why is he even thinking of that? Arthur's back – probably, unless he's _seriously_ insane – he can hear the prince tapping his fingertips on the wall in the hallway in waiting, humming a tune Merlin can't identify under his breath.

Merlin leans on his hands on the sink and takes several breaths through his nose.

It doesn't really help. And only the knowledge that Arthur will begin to _wonder_ , drives him out of the tiny room.

"Do you need me to –" He gestures awkwardly, uncertainly.

"No, I can figure it out. It's only indoor plumbing, after all." Arthur flashes another grin – as far as Merlin can tell, he's absolutely stoked to be back and it makes Merlin feel uneasy like he should be the same and isn't, really… it's all so surreal. Arthur closes the door between them.

Merlin takes a step back because it's really quite rude to listen. Though it makes him feel a little sick to put more distance between them – and it scares him to think how his mind and his body – or mind and heart? - are reacting a little separately from each other. He takes another step back – he's trembling and lack of control always made him nervous. He hears the toilet flush and the tap turn on, the clatter of the hand-soap pump. So Arthur wasn't blustering and bluffing – either he's quite capable of figuring out modern conveniences at a glance, or –

Merlin backs swiftly, out of the hall, into the narrow kitchen. Breakfast, right. He's got – he hasn't got –

"Toast and peanut butter?" he blurts when Arthur emerges. He's all thumbs, getting bread from the fridge and the toaster from the cupboard and he's forgotten where he keeps the peanut butter.

"Sure – can't say I've tried it before."

"George Washington Carver," Merlin says. Nervously, but it's an innocent piece of the vast history Arthur has missed.

Out of the corner of his eye he watches Arthur seat himself at the table – it's only an old computer desk, complete with oblong hole down the center for power cords, and two metal folding chairs. Not because Merlin has ever really needed two, but because they only sell them in pairs, where Merlin shops. Junk furniture, some assembly required. Utilitarian. Cheap.

A bit of silence, while the toaster heats. Merlin fusses a bit with the plastic bag the bread is in, remembers the jar of grape jelly in the fridge, and rummages for a butter knife to spread it with. A second one for the peanut butter, though usually he'd just lick one off before re-using it. Can't do that with company.

Gosh, _company_.

 _Arthur._

He used to think about how this would happen. If Arthur would rise from the lake in chainmail, sword in hand and spouting Old English, totally lost in the changes slow centuries had wrought. If Merlin would know and be waiting for him, or discover it after the fact. If Arthur would be reborn, and how old he'd be when Merlin found him – if Merlin would recognize him as a child, if he'd remember Merlin at all…

Time was, Merlin had been sensitive to the possibility. Thousands of times, had turned suddenly in a crowd, just in case. Had walked at the lake, just in case. Had gotten drunk on a Samhain eve, when spirits were meant to walk, just in case. And he'd _imagined_ … only to wake alone.

He leans sideways suddenly, to check – front door still bolted for the night.

"S'matter?" Arthur says, more casual than he used to be. Lounging sideways at the table, not staring around the kitchen and living room at the electronics – lights and lamps and tv-stereo and appliances – but not really watching Merlin, either.

"Just… wondering." The toast pops up and he busies himself getting it on a plate, with a paper towel, getting it all to the table. Butter messy in its paper. "Want coffee?" he asks – _this is so surreal_ – "or milk?" He's got half a bottle of Crown in the freezer but no wine like they used to drink because water wasn't safe… "Pasteurization is great," he says inanely, lifting the jug from fridge shelf to kitchen counter.

"Refrigeration is great too, huh?" Arthur clatters his knife in the jelly jar, scraping it across the toast. Merlin puts two slices for himself down the toaster, pours mis-matched plastic cups of milk for them both. He can set and start the coffee-maker later, maybe.

"Can't imagine why they still make jam, if they've figured out how to do it without the seeds," he says lightly, and Arthur snorts like he knows exactly what Merlin's talking about and agrees.

A laugh bursts out of Merlin. A hard, ugly sound, and he half-collapses against the back wall of the kitchen.

Arthur looks up. "What's wrong?"

Merlin doesn't have the words. He gestures – _King Arthur in my apartment, eating peanut butter and jelly toast on a folding chair at a computer table._ So very casual – so very strange. "How… _how_?"

Also _why_? but he shies away from that one. For now.

"I started to tell you, before," Arthur says. "I never really left. Come and sit down, will you." Merlin starts to move forward; Arthur adds, "Get your food."

He obeys that, too.

"I was a ghost, or a spirit, or something. I could see and hear – and smell, actually, if I concentrated hard enough – only not touch. I waited too, Merlin, only I could see. Everything you've seen, everything you've been through…"

Merlin can't feel anything below his knees. He sinks into the metal chair, stunned. Stunned that anything can stun him, anymore.

"Everything?" he manages faintly. Because there's been _so much_ , and not a lot of it good.

"Well, not _everything_." Arthur looks away, embarrassed. "I'm not a… stalker, Merlin. I respected your privacy."

"Well, there's a first," Merlin blurts because he doesn't know what else to say or do. It seems to relax Arthur, who laughs and crams more toast into his mouth. "So… pasteurization and refrigeration," Merlin adds. So very weird to be talking about this with Arthur.

"Vaccination," Arthur says.

Yeah, that was good, too. "Penicillin," he says feelingly, and Arthur grunts. Because he probably remembers those days on other battlefields on other continents, like Merlin does. Trenches – wounds – " _Gunpowder_."

Arthur looks at him without lifting his head. "Thomas Edison," he says, like he's answering a challenge.

"The Blitz," Merlin counters. He'd been angry for half a century, that Arthur had not shown up for that. He'd been angry for a full century during the Hundred Years War. He shivers, wondering _why now_ …

"Columbus," Arthur says determinedly.

"The Black Death."

A sparkle in Arthur's eyes dares Merlin not to laugh. "The Beatles."

"Hiroshima."

"Gutenberg."

This sort of abbreviated reminiscing goes on. Merlin relaxes into his own breakfast, and the room lightens as morning carries on. It's easier to talk about things that happened, all these years, like they happened to someone else. A parade of strangers, born and growing up and living and dying normally. Merlin puts coffee on and they discuss colonization and sugar and pirates, the Titanic and the space-race and the canals, Suez and Panama. William the Bastard and William Wallace and William Shakespeare; Cromwell and Robespierre and Washington.

Merlin clears the table finally and Arthur insists on washing dishes. Merlin goes into the bathroom again and decides that the pain in his chest has eased somewhat. He's gotten through the first conversation with _Arthur_. Back again.

Except, they haven't really talked about anything personal.

And when he comes out, the apartment is silent, and empty. Merlin's breathing quickens as he listens – steps to look in the bedroom, which is empty. Hurries to the kitchen – living room – both empty. No sign of any guest.

"Arthur!" he calls, but fear steals the force from the word and it's only a whisper.

Then he sees that the chain has been lifted from the door. He steps to the window and sees that Arthur has gone outside to the balcony. He stands in the sunlight, hands braced on the wooden safety rail, as the breeze ruffles his hair and he looks out at the mountains, and Merlin looks at him.

Time was, he's wondered – if he saw Arthur in a crowd, and Arthur didn't see him, or didn't recognize him, what he'd do. Introduce himself? Insert himself into whatever life Arthur was currently living, pretending everything was fine? Watch from a distance, avidly collecting proof that Arthur was well and happy, without Merlin and his darkness complicating his new life? He wonders if Arthur has really seen _everything_ , because there's so much he would prefer to stay hidden…

The pills. The blades. The funerals.

Without warning, Arthur turns and heads for the stairs down to the parking lot, moving out of sight. Merlin panics, fumbling for the door handle, stumbling out to the balcony, himself, leaning over the rail –

More than once on a cold night he'd contemplated jumping, except it was only the second story and there was a vast prickly evergreen shrubbery below. His luck, he'd break a leg or impale himself on sticky pine and his downstairs neighbor would find him and have to deal with that –

"Hey!" he calls, hearing his voice pitched a bit too high. Arthur turns at the bottom of the stairs, still easy and casual, and Merlin sees shoes on his feet that don't belong to _him_.

Thinks haphazardly, if Arthur's back he'll need clothes – toothbrush – cell phone – ID – any guests staying longer than two weeks have to be approved and listed on the lease, or he could be evicted. It occurs to him, he isn't prepared for _this_. Hasn't been, for a very long time.

"Do you want to go somewhere?" he says, reaching back in the door for his own shoes, pulling them on without bothering to tie them.

He remembers how active his king had always been, how he used to think about the places he wanted to show Arthur – Canterbury, Jerusalem, Pisa. Key West. Paris. But Arthur had – been there, seen that.

"There's a state park, in the foothills," he ventures. "They advertise stables for public use. We could… we could go riding for a couple of hours."

For a moment Arthur only looks at Merlin, and he's not close enough to read his expression. Is he thinking of how long it's been since Merlin's ridden on a horse? How long it's been since Arthur has?

Then he says, more gently than matter-of-factly, "Costs money, doesn't it?" Merlin twitches – yeah, probably, obviously – and Arthur shrugs like the _no_ is a given. "Neighborhood park?"

"Up the hill, across the street," Merlin says, and Arthur gives his head a _come-on_ jerk, turning before he sees if Merlin will follow.

Of course Merlin follows, but as he clatters down the stairs and hurries to match Arthur's stride – right next to him like they're equals, like he's always done – he worries a bit. Because maybe it's true that Arthur's not royalty – no meals delivered on silver trays, no list of chores or orders – but Arthur's always been assertive. Commanding. And Merlin has grown to be non-confrontational, at least in the day-to-day stuff.

But he finds he resents this, a little. That Arthur decides, and he follows so instinctively. Which is backwards, really, he's _waited_ for this and wants everything to be as normal as possible, between them – why should he resent normal?

As they pass out the back gate of the apartment complex and hit the sidewalk, a dark-green SUV comes down the hill, around the curve – faster than it ought to, probably, and fear seizes his bones, sparks his nerves. Merlin is moving before he thinks, putting his body between the car and Arthur, one hand half-raised in readiness and teeth gritted.

This feeling is new, unexpected, irrational – and sends a wave of cold nausea through him as the SUV corners like a cat and revs its engine to disappear around the next turn down.

Accidents. Arthur is back – and fragile and vulnerable as any other given person who isn't Merlin – and suddenly Merlin is terrified that something _something_ will happen to Arthur. He's only flesh and blood again, now…

Arthur doesn't seem to have noticed, car or reaction; he strides up the sidewalk toward the cross-street. Merlin tries to catch his breath, trotting after.

"I did wonder, why you stayed here," Arthur tosses casually over his shoulder. "Now I know – the weather's perfect."

"From Easter to Halloween," Merlin answers. "Otherwise it's under snow."

Arthur tosses a quick glance either way along the street, hardly pausing before stepping out to cross. Merlin reaches for him but doesn't touch him, instead scurrying after and giving his own look for traffic, talking to distract himself. Maybe to reassure himself.

"You said – you said _they_. Before. Who's they?"

Arthur steps up the opposite curb and slows. The park is the size of a football field, but new – the trees are only saplings, deliberately planted, the playground equipment is vacant. The winding walking-paths are visible from every point; there's a jogger on the far side, and a middle-aged female with a dog halfway across.

"No one I saw," Arthur says. "Only voices, sometimes. I could hear you, everyone around you, but… when I spoke, sometimes a handful of different voices answered. I don't know who any of them were."

Merlin has a few guesses, but they wouldn't mean anything to Arthur if he doesn't know after fifteen hundred years. And maybe it's not important, anyway. He shoves his hands in his pockets and doesn't try to relax his shoulders, pacing at Arthur's side with his eyes on the sidewalk – ants and cracks. "What did they say?" he asks hesitantly. Aside from, _it's not time_. "About… why?"

Arthur inhales deeply; somehow Merlin can tell without looking that his head is up. It still feels like, he wouldn't be surprised to wake in his bed, any minute. Still dreaming.

"They said, I never understood you. Never appreciated you. They said I should…"

"And that's what took this long?" Merlin says, and he can't help the sarcasm. Because surely it can't be that stupid, surely he isn't this complicated, or Arthur this obtuse. Arthur doesn't answer, and Merlin thinks, maybe they're talking at cross-purpose. "I meant, did they say anything about – why now? I was told, when Albion's need is greatest, you would rise again. But…"

"What was my purpose before?" Arthur says contemplatively. "What was yours? Ours, together? How long did it take us to realize? Merlin… there's no rush. I don't imagine some crisis is taking place right now and we might miss it if we don't figure it out. I imagine we'll have some time… to prepare."

"Right, yes," Merlin says. "I didn't know –" of course Arthur knows he didn't know. "I didn't expect…" _At all_ , anymore, and does Arthur know _that_? The fatalistic, _he's never coming back_ mantra that had played more often, recently, than its converse. "I mean… what do we _do_?"

"First of all, relax," Arthur says, and there's a bit of exasperation in his voice whether he means it or not. "It's a gorgeous day –"

"Your first back," Merlin says, trying to be understanding. Even having observed for so long, there was so much Arthur never got the chance to experience – and Merlin isn't really enthusiastic about diving headfirst into danger or risk, either, he just – he wants to be prepared this time, he's _determined_ he'll be better prepared to protect Arthur.

"Let's just – spend it as friends, huh?"

"Yeah." Merlin nods eagerly. "Yeah, I can do that." It's been – how long? since he had a friend?

Only… what did they do, what did they say? They didn't need to get to know each other, ask after growing-up experiences or high-school graduation dates or college majors, work history or places they'd lived or visited. Arthur knew all that – it was a relief not to have to lie – but they didn't really have any leisure activities they enjoyed in common. They weren't exactly going to go bar-hopping to meet women, either.

"You like the mountains, huh?" Arthur says, looking over his shoulder.

"Reminds me of home," Merlin is saying, when the dog – leash trailing – comes bounding up to them, tongue lolling and paws flapping, jumping up on Arthur.

Who loves the attention and interruption. "Hey boy, hey boy," he says, ruffling the dog's ears – it's a half-grown German Shepherd, by the look.

Something inside Merlin slots into place, and he realizes he might have been unconsciously waiting for this. Outside corroboration that he's not hallucinating, at least. He smiles as Arthur goes down on one knee to rough the pup in play – and then the middle-aged female owner hustles up, breathless.

"I'm so sorry," she gasps. "He's still young, but he's strong, and just pulled away from me –"

"Do not apologize," Arthur orders. And combines it with a dazzling grin, compliments the woman on her pet. "He's so friendly, you don't know how long it's been since I've seen such a handsome, friendly dog."

"He's got a lot of learning to do," the woman responds, beaming. "But a lot of potential." She gushes on about training and breeding…

And Merlin feels like he's slowly drifting backward, away from the conversation. Torn again, because part of him really enjoys seeing Arthur – at all, but especially like this. Laughing in the sun and charming a stranger for no other reason than sheer exuberance of life.

Part of him is insanely jealous of Arthur's attention. Even though he's not sure he wants Arthur's undivided attention, anyway.

 _You owe me! You owe me! You left me and I waited and waited!_

 _No, it wasn't his fault. Not his fault he died. Yours, wasn't it. No one owes you anything, you got exactly what you deserve._

Arthur turns from watching the woman walk away, and he's still grinning, and Merlin's shoulder-blades inexplicably pull together. "Maybe we should get one," Arthur proposes.

Merlin stares at him, immediately resistant. Because they weren't just guys. Just roommates hanging out. Something is starting, and a pet will only complicate whatever this is – not fair to the dog if… if something happens.

"Eh?" Arthur prompts, still happy.

"Can't," Merlin manages. "The apartment has a no-pet policy."

"We'll move," Arthur says, like it's the easiest thing in the world. "Yours is only a one-bedroom, anyway?"

The fury takes Merlin by surprise because – what right does Arthur have to suggest changes to Merlin's life? He's the one that's had to make things work, to survive on his own – so many times. And though he's always given Arthur everything, every time, he can't help but think, _I can't afford to move_. And he feels guilty for not having loads of savings by now, and resentful because – _no one told me you were coming, I could have saved I could have planned…_

"You can have the bed," he says shortly. "I'll take the couch." It's a futon, anyway, the cheapest sort, but it'll work for two weeks, at least. Til he has to put Arthur on the lease, or risk eviction. "Come on, we need to get some things for you."


	3. Time Was 2

**A/N: Merlin adjusts to Arthur's return… warning for description of self-harm.**

 **Time Was (part 2)**

Arthur's surprisingly agreeable. None of the _I'm king, I decide_ crap Merlin was used to. He likes it, though it makes him uneasy and uncertain, at the same time.

They go to a charity shop by the gas station on the corner. Eat some sandwiches and make casual comments about people they see and cars that pass by. They get some new clothes for Arthur – chatting about fashion foibles through the ages, though again without specific references – and pick up a few more things for the kitchen. Arthur's eager to try new tastes.

Back in the apartment, they talk tv and movies. Arthur knows Merlin's favorites and he's seen what Merlin has seen, but Merlin is curious about what he thinks, and Arthur's not always sure why Merlin likes what he likes. It's comfortably impersonal.

They talk about tomorrow. Arthur thinks they should take things a day at a time, he's sure that whatever the reason is that he's back, it will become clear in time. No need to go looking for it, or even to make immediate changes. He was born into his destiny, before, and Merlin basically walked right into it. Appointed to his position as Arthur's guardian, when he never would have thought of seeking the job, himself.

Merlin thinks of his bank account. Double-digits only, after today's expenses, and the numbers to the left of the decimal matter. He'll get paid on Friday again, and they've probably got enough food to last, half a tank of gas should suffice…

"You could go with me," Merlin blurts. Then remembers, that's what Arthur's been doing. Words continue anyway. "To work, I mean. Linda won't mind you riding along…"

Merlin's job these days is driving bus for a local elementary school. Three routes a day, morning pickup and afternoon drop-off and a noon run for the preschool. Linda, his boss, is a stout black lady who wears purple lipstick and has a picture of her grandbaby on her desk and a copy of the serenity prayer on her office wall. She thinks Merlin is one of those things she can change; she mothers him.

"Yeah, all right." Arthur shrugs, and Merlin can't tell why. If he thinks he'll be bored sitting here alone. If he doesn't care either way.

It irritates Merlin, though he knows he can't expect Arthur to be enthusiastic about everything, and of course this isn't exactly brain surgery or rocket science or national politics. Which would be interesting.

Then Arthur's tired. Or maybe he thinks Merlin's tired, and declaring his intention of retiring for the night will help.

It's awkward, making space in the closet and dresser for Arthur's things. He's done it before with wives, but… never with another man. And this is _Arthur_. Even though he used to wash Arthur's socks by hand, they've never _shared_ before.

They take turns in the shower, and that's awkward, too. Merlin wants to treat Arthur like a guest, detailing soap and shampoo and towel, but Arthur's already familiar with the space, what's in it and how to use it.

Merlin thinks if Arthur says, _I know_ , one more time, he's going to snap. Somehow. And not by choice.

He's slept in far worse places, but he doesn't sleep well on the futon-sofa, that night. He wakes, holding his breath and straining his eyes in the darkness, and can't tell if there's anyone in the bedroom at all. He could use magic to reassure himself, but… It's Arthur. They haven't exactly talked about magic. Time was, he used magic on his prince in his presence, even, but…

Merlin rolls carefully off the couch. Pads down the hallway. Holding his breath. Listening.

He pulls the bathroom door almost closed, reaches in and flips the light switch.

The light is dim enough, he only blinks a few times to adjust, and can see into the bedroom. The blankets rumpled, Arthur's body a sprawling lump.

Merlin relaxes, and breathes. Steps closer, leans on the doorway, just to watch. It comes to him that this was his dream, only with their positions reversed. He wonders how many times Arthur's stood sentinel, and Merlin had no idea. It makes him sad. He wishes there was someone he could tell, Arthur's back.

He shivers. _Arthur's back_.

Then the lump on the bed shifts and speaks, and Merlin skitters back, but can't reach the light switch to turn it off before the voice reaches him. "Merlin."

He curses inwardly, tries to make his reply light and apologetic. "Yeah, sorry, just – bathroom."

"You've been standing there twenty minutes." Arthur sounds clear, not sleep-thick. His shape is moving to sit up in bed, now.

Merlin's not skinny enough to hide behind the doorway trim, but he tries. "Sorry. I. Just…"

"Can't sleep?" Arthur suggests, and sighs when Merlin doesn't say anything. The bed creaks, and Arthur's on his feet. "It's four-thirty. How about doughnuts?"

Not what Merlin expects. "What?" he says blankly.

"That little place near the mall," Arthur says. "Open twenty-four-seven, right? _That_ was something I smelled."

"You want to go for doughnuts at four-thirty in the morning?" Merlin says incredulously. Because usually Merlin had to drag him from bed, and often well past dawn.

Things change. He should know that by now, better than anyone. People change.

"Why not?" Arthur says, and Merlin immediately thinks, _bank account_. "Come on, just get your shoes. We're presentable."

T-shirts and flannel pants. And in a town that hosts a military installation, 24-7 places aren't unusual or even abandoned in the wee hours – though Merlin and Arthur are the only customers in the doughnut shop, this morning. They inhale the scent of glaze and chocolate and blueberry and sit on stools at a high table, facing not each other, but the work area behind glass windows, where rings of dough come out of the machine in conveyed rows. Workers ignore the two of them forming an audience to pack the doughnuts in boxes for trucks that will take them to gas stations.

They eat probably a dozen each, but the doughnuts are light as feathers – fresh and warm, they're worth it.

"Why here?" Arthur says conversationally. "There's lots of mountain ranges in the world."

"Well…" Merlin shifts uncomfortably. If Arthur's been with him all this time, he knows about the nurse Merlin was married to. Twelve… thirteen years ago, now. Retired from this post to live out her twilight years, at least, in the peace and seclusion of the mountains. Buried now in the cemetery Merlin can see from his balcony, at ninety-three years of age.

"I guess I mean, why'd you stay?" Arthur amends.

"I always stay," Merlin mutters.

It's true, too. After Arthur – and everyone else – he'd had trouble making friends. Hesitant because of the certainty of loss. And because his great failure tore his confidence away – how could he be a friend to anyone else, when he'd let all of his best friends down so badly? There were people, however – men and women – who had made the effort to befriend him. Lift the loneliness, look a little deeper, matter and care and help. Often he'd moved because of those people, prompted when they said, _Come with me_. He hadn't met anyone like that after Elizabeth, though.

"I rather thought," Arthur says, in that deliberate way he has of being careful – Merlin remembers him using it at council meetings, but he'd always spoken quick and careless to Merlin, it sets him on guard before he knows it, which is probably the opposite of what Arthur intends, so he tries to relax, he _does_ – "You'd have joined up, again."

Which Merlin has also done in the past. He's buried three wives before – Elizabeth was the fourth – and each time, he'd gone straight to a war zone. Get busy, forget himself, save lives. There was always a war zone to go to.

"The Middle East," Merlin says. Arthur should know he's been there. More than once. "D'you know, they've been fighting there since before you and me? They don't _want_ peace."

"Sure they do," Arthur disagrees immediately. Because he can't understand anyone feeling differently, and he's always so sure he's right. "They just don't know how to keep it."

"Well, they sure as hell don't want anyone from the West telling them how," Merlin snaps. "Or showing them. Is this about my job? Because I'm doing the best I can, right now."

Arthur raises his hands like he's surrendering, though Merlin can tell he's not convinced, and Merlin is frustrated because he's not convinced.

Can't always be a soldier. Can't always be a doctor. There's _reasons_ he works with kids.

He tells Linda that Arthur is his best friend from high school, just back from deployment and a bit PTSD. He sees the doubt in her eyes that Merlin can help – then sees her decide, it might help _Merlin_ to try to help someone else, and she tells him Arthur is welcome to ride along on the bus.

Merlin is unaccountably nervous. Even knowing Arthur must have been with him, before, he's self-conscious about getting the big old engine started – there's a trick to it, sometimes. He's hyper-aware of each decision he makes in the driver's seat, each movement. He double-checks, changing lanes. He triple-checks when red lights change to green. Like he wants to impress Arthur, or something. _Not_ screw this up, at least.

Even though, Arthur doesn't say anything. Even though it would take a Mack truck at top speed to cause an accident that would hurt them, in this bus. It's just – Arthur doesn't watch him – even though evidently he's been doing it for centuries, now…

Then the first kid gets on the bus, and everything relaxes.

Little black boy in kindergarten, half the size of everyone else, and his backpack is almost bigger than he is. Wide white smile, and an enthusiastic exploding fist-bump for Merlin.

"Who's this?" Jalan says.

"This is my friend Arthur," Merlin says, and can't help grinning.

"Hey, Mr. Arthur," Jalan says with immediate attitude, and Arthur gets an exploding fist-bump, too.

The child at the next house is Lisa, a slender pale waif with blue eyes and long white-blonde hair, sweet and quiet as Jalan is rambunctious and irrevocably best friends with her neighbor. From Lisa Merlin gets a tight squeeze around his neck that he has to bend from his seat for, working the lever that closes the doors.

This is why, this job. He can't explain – and especially not to Arthur, though it hurts to realize and admit that. Children love wholeheartedly and unreservedly and ask for so little back. Children smile so easily and show their inexperience and naiveté and ignorance without a shred of self-consciousness. Children accept answers without suspicion, argue without offense. And he _needs_ that.

Children never wonder, where he came from, why he took this job, never ask what his plans for his life are. They take him as they see him and it's more than good enough for both parties. Time means nothing to them. They don't think past next week, they're not interested in anything further back than last week. And the issues they agonize over are endearingly minor – torn finger-paintings and crushed lunch-brownies, stolen seats and long lines for the swings. Even the kids that deal with single-parent households and less-than-ideal living conditions, forget that stuff so easily, living in the present. And Merlin makes a difference in their lives without half trying, just by remembering names and other details, giving compliments and getting down on his hands and knees in the aisle to find a lost paper or project.

"Those kids are great," Arthur says on their way home, and Merlin grins.

Until he remembers, Arthur never had kids. Should have had kids, with Gwen, and lived to see his grandkids. Until he thinks, what about this time? And suddenly feels like he's got the lives of Arthur's potential descendents in his hands this time, instead of just Arthur. It's overwhelming, even though it's what he always thought he wanted…

By Friday Merlin is afraid Arthur is well and truly bored. His responses to Merlin and the children are vague and a fraction delayed. It's only been a week, Merlin thinks, resentful toward Arthur and impatient with himself for being resentful.

A week and almost three years now, though.

He wonders if it's him, that Arthur is bored with. He tries to imagine how he'd feel if it had been him to die, and tag along as a ghost with Arthur for fifteen centuries. He bets Arthur would have had better friends, more exciting jobs. There would have been no pills or blades. He tries to think – a bit desperate and ashamed to recognize it – what he can do or say, to hold Arthur's interest. It occurs to him that there are other ways of losing people, than just death.

"I want to get a job," Arthur says on Friday morning. He's sitting barefoot and still dressed in pajama pants at the computer table over a second cup of coffee, while Merlin is getting ready for the bus route.

"What?" Merlin says intelligently, around toothpaste.

"A job, you know. And I'd like to see if I can pick up how to drive a car, this weekend."

Something inside Merlin's chest chills. "You're not coming with me, today?" he says, as casually as he can.

"No…"

He is bored. Bored with Merlin's job and apartment, bored with being Merlin's friend. And that scares Merlin even more than the thought of getting in his truck and driving to the bus lot without Arthur right there to visually determine his safety and wellbeing.

 _The tighter you hold, the more you'll annoy him_. But the thought of letting go is like, releasing the life preserver in the middle of the ocean.

Merlin is very tense that day. He has to relax his breathing, unclench his fingers from the steering wheel. He catches himself glancing at the dashboard clock about every five minutes. He speeds back to the apartment, using magic to manipulate his way through traffic without incident.

Arthur is still sitting at the table, but he's dressed now and he's got Merlin's laptop open in front of him, the cordless house phone tucked between his ear and shoulder. Merlin takes a single easy breath to see him there – and Arthur puts his finger in his ear to concentrate on the person on the phone, absently. He doesn't seem at all bothered by their day spent apart; Merlin feels quite small. Arthur's probably been longing for one of those for centuries. And Merlin's been as clingy as a child with a teddy.

So they talk jobs.

Arthur thinks, long-term, he may do something in law enforcement. Or medicine, or government, or the military. Merlin nearly hyperventilates at the thought, but Arthur goes on as if he hasn't noticed, saying he doesn't want to make that sort of commitment before they figure out what he's back to do.

Merlin relaxes a bit then, and teases him about service industries. He can't see Arthur as a waiter or a nurse – though there is that horse ranch near the park, Arthur knows horses, maybe he can start out mucking stables.

Instead of acting insulted, Arthur laughs – and for a moment it's perfect – and then he says, "I have an interview on Monday morning."

Merlin stops laughing. Does it have to be Monday, he works on Monday, doesn't Arthur want him to come…

"If I figure out how to handle the truck tomorrow, you can magic me a license, can't you? Then I'll just go while you're at work."

Merlin can't argue. Wants to argue, and hates himself for that. Wants Arthur to be content hanging out with him – knows he can't – knows he wouldn't change Arthur like that, wouldn't respect him like that or maybe even _like_ him anymore… He really hates destiny and Arthur's _they_.

Arthur's observant. Merlin's years of driving are very nearly his own, and soon he's confident and casual behind the wheel, and it's Merlin who's nervous and sensitive to speed limits and stop signs. And _all_ the other cars; he's going to have to self-medicate before he ever rides with Arthur driving on the highway.

The interview goes well, and Arthur has a job in a pet store. Merlin works on thinking about other things during the day, and keeping his eyes away from the clock. His anxiety annoys Arthur, as if Arthur thinks Merlin thinks, he can't take care of himself. He's always prided himself on that, and taking care of others, but… if he only knew. Merlin is _supposed_ to protect Arthur, otherwise… all this, what's it for?

He tries to match his behavior to Arthur's, nonchalant and happy for his friend's independence. He's a bit impatient for the other shoe to drop. World War 3, maybe? But life and the world continue as before.

Arthur talks about looking for a new vehicle, and Merlin hides a defensive reaction. Arthur talks about finding a new apartment. Merlin's heart stutters before he realizes, Arthur only meant, one with a bedroom for both of them, and maybe with a pets-allowed policy.

And then one day, while Merlin's waiting in his truck for Arthur to come out of the pet store – his shift concluded ten minutes ago – Arthur emerges in the company of a female. Young, blonde, pretty – and flirting openly with Arthur. Who doesn't appear to mind, lingering on the sidewalk, between the building and the parking lot without so much as a glance for Merlin, waiting in their shared ride.

Jealous. He wishes it wasn't so, and can't seem to help it. Not that he wants that sort of interest from Arthur – who's technically a widower, he supposes, and hasn't had female company for a lot longer than Merlin, and he should be happy to see Arthur happy. And he is. Only, jealousy is also churning in the pit of his stomach, and he thinks about that second-bedroom possibility, and Arthur bringing girls home while Merlin lies awake alone in the other room.

He watches the two, beautiful and sun-lit, and finds the keys clenched in his hand. Merlin is _waiting_ , and Arthur's with some girl.

But if he can't be normal, sooner or later Arthur will realize that he's better off without the baggage of Merlin. He thinks about his breathing, loud and fast in his ears, thinks about the black hole in the center of his chest, sucking away rationality and happiness. He rubs his thumb along the jagged edge of the key, pressing into it. He turns the piece of metal, turns his hand.

And traces the veins in his wrist.

Even though he can't die – and doesn't want to anymore, does he? – this makes him feel like he has control. That life or death is his decision, and an immediate one. Expressing the pain physically seems to draw it outward, from heart and soul to body, and it's distracting and it's sharp and it's manageable.

Even though a key won't do more than scratch and bruise.

"Hey, Merlin," Arthur says, opening the passenger door and sliding onto the seat.

Merlin jumps about a foot, fumbling the keys for the ignition, tucking his left arm away, out of sight. "Hey," he says. "Good day?"

"Decent," Arthur says, reaching for his seatbelt as Merlin shifts gears and pulls forward.

Merlin doesn't ask, who's the girl. And Arthur doesn't say.

That night, they're sitting at opposite ends of the futon with the tv on, not exactly interacting but Merlin is absorbing Arthur's indirect attention and presence – amused, relaxed – like a dry sponge. Merlin reaches for the big bowl of popcorn between them on the couch – and Arthur grabs him. Merlin frowns – until Arthur twists his arm around to show the scabbed scratches on the pale skin of the inside of his wrist.

"What's that," Arthur says flatly.

"Nothing," Merlin says immediately. Which is too defensive and also a lie, so he blurts, "It's just –" but his mouth is empty of words because there's no excuse Arthur will believe this time. It obviously, is what it is.

And Arthur's staring at him – Merlin knows though he can't meet his eyes – and he's ashamed and resentful of that feeling, of Arthur knowing.

"It's nothing," he repeats stubbornly, pulling gently but steadily so Arthur will let him go.

Arthur does, but he mutes the movie and shifts sideways on the futon to face Merlin, who draws his knees up like a shield over his chest and covers the marks with his other hand – squeezes a bit to feel the ache, again to draw the pain that is unbearable when it's in the region of his heart. But Arthur doesn't say anything, and Merlin's feelings intensify – shame that he did it, irritation that it's no longer private, regret that it must hurt and confuse Arthur now, too.

 _It's not because I lost control. Or that I was trying to –_ internal scoff and roll of the eyes _– kill myself. That doesn't even work anyway, and why would I want to, now?_

"Really," he insists. "Nothing to worry about. I just…"

Arthur says, his voice softly questioning, "Is this because I –"

"No!" Merlin says loudly. "It's not you, nothing you said or did – or didn't – it's not your fault. It's me. It's just…" _Something I do, sometimes_.

Habit? No. That implies a level of helplessness. This is… decision. Symptom management.

"They've treated you for depression," Arthur says, and there's hesitation in his voice. Because they haven't talked about _this_ , that he's seen, yet.

Merlin shrugs. "The drugs are nice for a while, but. There was nothing anyone could do to help. Couldn't chat with a shrink about my childhood and my greatest regrets or hopes for the future, not without lying and then what good would it do? Couldn't bargain with the fates for my end or your beginning – second chances, either way…" Merlin trails off, feeling like his mouth has run away with him.

Arthur doesn't immediately answer, but he doesn't get up and leave, or give up and turn back to the movie. "I already know about your childhood," he says mildly. "And, this is a second chance for both of us, but… we really don't need to rush anything, you know."

Merlin's not rushing. It feels like Arthur is rushing, ready to embrace the world with new experiences and new acquaintances and Merlin is so crippled he's going to slow Arthur down and put him in danger, or get left behind.

"You've got to talk to me," Arthur adds, still shrink-gentle.

"We never did before," Merlin shoots back.

"This isn't before," Arthur says, unoffended. "Merlin, I saw… when you hurt, and when you struggled, and I… could _guess_ , but… maybe I need you to help me understand why."

"How would you feel," Merlin says, rude and incredulous. "If you were told to protect me and spent years doing it by hook or by crook, behind the scenes and without help and sometimes scared for your life and always scared for the responsibility of the outcome…" His mouth is running away from him again. "And then you couldn't stop it, and I died anyway."

"I would mourn you, of course," Arthur says – a bit overwhelmed, by his expression, but determined to make his point. "But then I would –"

"Sure you'd mourn," Merlin interrupts. "Maybe til the end of your life. But how would you feel if you couldn't even die and join me then, and say…"

After a moment, Arthur prompts, "Say what, Merlin?"

His fingers fuss at the marks on his wrist, brushing the roughened scratch-scabs, picking and rubbing and stretching. Arthur watches him and doesn't try to stop him – of course he's seen far worse and isn't concerned about the severity of the injury.

"I'm sorry," Merlin says softly. Then thinks, Arthur's going to assume he's talking about _this_ , and today. "About before, back then. I couldn't stop Camlann happening, even with warnings that other people died to give me. The most powerful damn screw-up ever." He laughs and it stings his throat so that tears come to his eyes. "I couldn't get you to Avalon in time, I didn't even try anything else, and I could have –" Centuries, he'd had, to second-guess the decisions of those two harrowing days.

"Merlin." Arthur stops him. Still gentle, still determined, but no longer careful-therapist. "You couldn't have prevented my death, that's impossible, everyone dies. Sooner or later –"

"It should've been later," Merlin mutters.

"And my life back then was chock-full of danger and risk and threat. War. Come on, how many times did you save me since that first time, when we met? You did protect me, Merlin, gave me lots of years I wouldn't have had otherwise, right? Think about what would have happened to the rest of the kingdom if I had snuffed it, any of those other times, without you."

Then why does it feel like he's been punished with eternal exile? Not eternal, Merlin reminds himself, it's over now and Arthur's back.

He still feels like a prisoner released after too many years. Hesitant, uncertain, weak. Lost. Broken.

While Arthur, it seems, can stride confidently into his second chance, king of all he surveys, and keep right on going without ever slowing.

It's not fair. How many times has he whispered, screamed that. It's not fair.

Arthur sighs and scoots closer. "If I can't convince you, you didn't do anything wrong, at least will you believe me when I say, I forgive you. At least believe I forgive you, for all of it. That I'm –" he waves a hand to help him express – "more grateful than I can say, everything you did, everything you've done. It wasn't easy and I know it and that's partly my fault, but I'm proud of you."

 _That should fix it_ , Merlin thinks. And feels a little better. Arthur slaps his knee like he thinks, _that should fix it_ , too, then stands and stretches.

"How about early to bed, huh?" he says. "And early to rise – we'll be healthy, wealthy, and wise in no time."

"And two out of three ain't bad," Merlin returns mechanically. Arthur cuffs him, little more than a disarrangement of the hair on the top of his head, and Merlin adds, "But early to rise and early to bed might make a man healthy – but socially dead."

"Exactly," Arthur says, unconcerned at his own inconsistency. "And we've had enough of that around here, haven't we. Right? Right."

Merlin thinks, of course _I'm right, I'm always right, I'm king_.

"Night," Arthur says nonchalantly, heading for the hall and bathroom and bedroom.

Merlin loves Arthur with all his heart. He's missed him like air and water and warmth, and can't be more pleased to be reunited – at long last – with the prince and king and friend who is _his_ , like no other. It means everything that Arthur understands, and accepts. Good, bad, and ugly.

But. Damn it all to hell, Merlin can't tell if Arthur's return makes everything better, or worse. Simpler, or more complicated.

He's carried an Arthur-shaped hole – the black hole – inside, so long. No one else has matched, though some have helped to fill it, to make him feel less empty. Now it seems like the edges have weathered. Crumbled. Worn away through the ravages of time. And not even Arthur fits that hole, anymore.

That scares him.

Because maybe Arthur assumes, his appearance and continuing presence fixes things for Merlin. Maybe his reincarnation fixes everything _he's_ been through, ghosting along at an oblivious Merlin's side.

Merlin's angry, that this isn't the case for him. At Arthur – not at Arthur, it's not his fault – at destiny. But destiny's brought Arthur back, for which he should say _thank you_ , not _it's about damn time you soulless bitch, and why in hell did it take so long_? A warning, a count-down, might have been nice, so he didn't give himself a million false-alarms which wore his damn endurance down to a damn nub.

He's irrationally afraid, deep down, that his anger might precipitate the taking-back of the belated gift. He's afraid that if he can't be good enough for whatever unknown threat they're facing, Arthur will die and leave Merlin behind alone. Again. But he's so brittle, and the anger won't leave. He knows he isn't good enough. And hiding that won't make a difference, when push comes to shove. He feels like, the constant tension of waiting now for that to happen, keeps his anxiety in limbo as well, without a chance to try to relax it away for good.

* * *

Time was, those special people who had befriended Merlin – sometimes patiently, sometimes unobtrusively, sometimes forcibly – had introduced him as a matter of course to others. Family, a wider circle of friends, more or less accepting of Merlin's secrets and psychosis, and he had been glad of it. Glad to be included, glad to experience the laughter and camaraderie, even if he remained on the fringe. The comfort of undemanding companionship. And though there had been a very few – his wives – who had known the secret of his immortality, mostly the obliviousness to the truth of Merlin's apparent strangeness has been like a security blanket to him, among these friends and their friends.

Merlin's work-friends are all whole-hearted and sincerely attached. They love him to pieces and PDA without a second thought, and are thrilled to hang out, every second, every time. They're also, all in elementary school.

Arthur's work-friends, Merlin learns about grudgingly and second-hand. The shop's owner fancies himself a history buff, and evidently enjoys a good debate. Evidently he and Arthur talk, while they work. A lot. Merlin thinks, Arthur's not worried about offending _him_ , with contrary opinions or difficult observations.

The blonde girl – and a brunette coworker, sometimes – continues to try to attract Arthur's attention. And he continues to allow it, which irritates Merlin. It irritates Merlin that he has no right to be irritated, but he is anyway, like he has no control over his emotions, and that scares him.

He wonders if Arthur even knows he's doing it, flirting. Probably. He used to be as obtuse about female intentions as everyone else, but he's had a lot more experience since back then, even if only by default.

One day Arthur calls Merlin from work. Don't come by the shop, everyone's going out for drinks and he'll catch a ride with one of the others.

Merlin goes back to the apartment. Sits and listens to the silence.

Not quite silence. Because he _thinks_. Arthur forgives him, but he doesn't want him. Doesn't need him. Because he's useless, bound to fail again, eventually. Is failing.

He opens the freezer for a single-serving microwave meal, and ends up with the half-bottle of Crown, instead. He doesn't dilute it with Coke. And he's on his second unmeasured drink, when Arthur calls again.

"Where are you, I thought you were coming, too?"

Something twists in his chest like it's trying to unwind. He was wrong, Arthur does miss him and want him around – but he's angry at that relief too, and nervous about being awkward around Arthur's co-workers. Especially the history-buff boss, because Merlin's never sure how he's going to react to some of the absurdity that comes when someone's only read about this war or that in books – and maybe he'll reveal too much, the way Arthur's too controlled to. Especially the girls, who might be as perceptive as girls can be, and might recognize his jealousy and _wonder_. He wonders, what Arthur's told them about his relationship with Merlin. High school friend home from deployment. PTSD.

He doesn't commit to showing up, but after finishing his second drink, he goes. To prove that he's not sitting home alone getting drunk and stewing in his emotional confusion – maybe to force that to be true.

When he comes in the door, Arthur's group is the loudest and happiest in the place. He stands in a dark corner by the door, unnoticed, and watches. There's a smile on his face to see Arthur enjoying himself, but it's twisted.

It feels a bit like, watching Arthur with the knights. After their commoner friends had been officially promoted and recognized. And Guinevere raised to queen. And Merlin still fighting inner demons of truth and deception and foreknowledge and threat, while they all laughed and teased.

He knows, if he joins them, the dynamic will change. The atmosphere will fracture and cool, and everyone will try to make him feel welcome, even though they all – except perhaps Arthur – know he's not. He never has fit in with Arthur's friends, and he never will. Arthur doesn't need Merlin's insolence to take him down a notch, connect him with his subjects. Evidently doesn't need him to be a magical shield, either – there hasn't been a single glimmer of malevolent magic, or even more ordinary danger, since he's been back.

Arthur starts to turn, with his head up like he's scanning the crowd, and Merlin ducks out before he's finished the turn.

He leans against the rough brick wall outside the door, and tries to slow his breathing. Feeling the pounding rhythm of the music through the masonry, feeling too vulnerable under the street-light. He thinks he got out without Arthur noticing him.

Numb and tired and sick, he goes home.

At the balcony, he inhales pine brush and distant stars and thinks about jumping. The feeling of disconnect and freedom, the sudden stop to _everything_.

Inside, he retrieves the bottle of Crown from the kitchen counter. It makes more sense to finish the last swallow than put it away for next time, when there's not enough there to be good for anything – and then it's more than a swallow, but it's fine and Merlin finishes it anyway.

Then he has to take a piss. And washing afterwards, in front of the sink, he reaches to open the cabinet.

The straight razor isn't there.

He stares for a minute, trying to think clearly. No, he hasn't done anything with it, which must mean… Arthur. Which only makes him mad, right now. With Arthur, for daring – with himself, for making Arthur think it's necessary.

Just to check, he goes to the kitchen. And, the knives are gone, too. The anger heightens – the sick feeling twists in his belly and rises to drown his heart in the expanding black hole. There's more rage than grief, so the emotion is locked inside his throat against verbal expression, and it _hurts_. Without thinking, he grasps the empty glass bottle of Crown and hurls it at the wall with all his strength.

It shatters.

He's not sure why that surprises him. Each piece glitters in the carpet, gorgeous and mesmerizing and deadly.

Merlin thinks of Arthur coming home. After midnight, tired and buzzed and unaware, kicking off his shoes by the door and… Merlin drops to his knees to begin picking up the pieces.

Because he's always done what he's supposed to. He's always been responsible. Always the one picking up the pieces.

Amber liquid clings to some in sticky drops. He's not even aware that he's looking for _one_ , until he finds it. In the sharp tinkling jumble, one. He pushes to his feet, takes the glass to the kitchen trashcan. Keeps the one.

Goes to the bathroom and shuts the door. Arthur might be hours, yet. And while the minor scratches and bruises the key had left healed at a normal rate, always a fatal wound closes too swiftly to allow the fatality. If he cuts deeply enough, Arthur will never know it happened.

Merlin pinches the flat, smooth sides of the glass piece, sliding to a crouch with his back to the wall, next to the tub. Nausea fills him, he knows he shouldn't. Knows he shouldn't need to. It's not normal, it's not healthy.

Neither is he.

He sets the sharp, clear edge to his skin and pushes, a bit. The pain draws up from his soul, from his heart, to that smaller spot on the inside of his forearm. A pain he can see and understand, a pain he chooses, which makes it bearable.

It's still, not about suicide. It's not even a cry for help, since he doesn't mean for anyone to know. At this moment, he is fully in control. What comes next, his decision and only his. To be, or not to be.

He pushes harder, and shudders as his skin splits. Sharper pain, bright blood, sliding warm over cooler skin. Even, the sort of adrenalin rush that comes from possibly-imminent death. Skating that fine line, that for him doesn't exist, but his body doesn't know it.

Careful, careful. Too much, and the decision will be made, thumbs down.

He finishes the cut. Only one, and not long. Deep enough, but not endangering tendons or major nerve lines.

His fingers twitch, and he reaches his arm over the tub so the blood will trickle down. He can rinse it out later, before stumbling to his bed to sleep off the exhaustion of blood loss. Because if he falls asleep here, for sure Arthur will catch him and know. And what he fears about being his own worst nightmare, pushing Arthur away, will come true.

He watches for a minute, turning his arm so that the red stream has to choose a new route earthward. It's throbbing now, and the tension in his chest eases so that he can breathe.

But there's _guilt_. And it's sour and too late, so he closes his eyes and lets his head thump against the wall behind him, feeling the detached drifting sensation begin. He meant it when he told Arthur, I'm sorry.

He means it this time, too.

* * *

The slam of the apartment door startles him aware – no uncertain question of dreaming - and Arthur calls his name.

He straightens a bit, feeling stiff and sluggish at once. Blood is drying in runnels down the tub's slant to the drain. But his body has slumped, propping his arm too high, and so there's more blood down his elbow, dripping on his shirt and jeans and the linoleum floor, glistening dark red patches spreading. It hasn't stopped – it hasn't healed – Arthur is home too early and the irony chokes Merlin's startled gasp.

Outside the door Arthur says, "Merlin – the hell is up with this _glass_? Where are you – are you here?"

He panics, trying to reach up from his position on the floor for the lock on the inside of the bathroom doorknob. It's beyond his fingertips, he's too slow and not strong enough to push himself up to it – and Arthur bursts in, knocking him back.

One brief glimpse of Arthur's face as he sees the blood – horror, realization – and Merlin whirls away, trying to draw himself into a tighter ball. Trying to hide. Hide from the hurt in Arthur's eyes – he might as well have used the glass shard on _him_.

Arthur says his name again, and then a few helpless, sickened obscenities. Merlin hears him whip the hand-towel off its holder, then Arthur's body is crowding into Merlin's, fumbling for the arm to wrap it, to hold it.

And everything Merlin expects him to say – _why would you do this, you're so stupid, this isn't the answer_ – doesn't come out.

Instead Arthur says, "I'm sorry."

And it's a sob, and Merlin doesn't understand. Even when Arthur uses his other arm to gather Merlin's awkwardness tight up to him, and another sob escapes.

"I'm _so_ sorry, Merlin."

"Shut up," he tries to say to Arthur's collarbone. "Not your fault. Don't worry. It'll stop in a minute."

"I thought – I thought we were going to _talk_ about this."

Dizziness lowers Merlin's inhibitions.

"I waited," he says thickly, then repeats so he'll be sure Arthur understands, "I _waited_ , for you, so long… there's nothing left of me."

"I can't believe that," Arthur says, his arms and his jaw tight with tension.

Merlin ignores him. "You need someone strong and smart, and I'm not either, I'm – not okay. I'm useless to you, you're better off without me."

Arthur's grip tightens around Merlin's forearm so that it twinges and he gasps, pulling away – but he doesn't think Arthur even notices. His friend keeps his other hand on the back of Merlin's neck, keeps their faces close together so the blue flame of his gaze burns into Merlin's soul, a cleansing fire.

"Never say so," he commands. "I need you, Merlin, and I daresay I always have. Remember how I was when we first met? Pretty useless, myself."

Merlin huffs. He wants to agree, with heavy sarcasm; he wants to argue back, _Never_.

"You were patient with me, right? So how can I be anything but patient with you? We've got time, don't rush it, don't expect too much of yourself. You said you're not okay, but I think you're doing pretty damn fine for what you've been through. Don't hide from me, Merlin, and don't fear me. We'll get through this – I'm not going anywhere."

"Don't say that." Merlin summons an anger-strength sufficient to shove Arthur back against the toilet, though he keeps his hand tightly around Merlin's throbbing forearm. "Don't say that. You don't know."

"I'm not going to leave you, Merlin," Arthur says, his intensity gentled by Merlin's, somehow.

"You don't know," Merlin mumbles. "You don't know…"

"Okay," Arthur concedes, probably remembering the uncertainty of life at least and maybe destiny also. "But you don't either. Make the most of the time we've got, huh? And nothing but death separates us."

"Promise?" Merlin says, feeling stupidly pitiful.

"Yes. And you've got to promise, no tempting fate?" Arthur lifts Merlin's towel-wrapped arm and his eyebrows, as much asking if Merlin _can_ make the promise, as if he will.

Right now Merlin feels like he'd promise Arthur his soul, just to apologize. He really is handling Merlin's issues, quite well. And with no hint of an ulterior motive – no jesting about breaking in a new servant, no questions about the stability of Merlin's magic in relation to his mind. No metaphorical checking of his watch – how long d'ya think your nervous breakdown's gonna last?

It would be great to relax into Arthur's unconditional care and unshakable loyalty, for a change. Trust him.

"I'll do my best," Merlin sighs. And Arthur nods like that's good enough.

"In the meantime, Merlin, why…" He hesitates, and his tone changes, " _Why_ , didn't you come have drinks, instead of…" Merlin thinks, _this_ , but Arthur finishes with, "staying home? I know you don't have many close friends right now, and – these are good people. While we're waiting for the next step."

"I have to focus on you," Merlin tells him. The ache is receding, so he knows the cut is finally closing, but between blood loss and alcohol and the late hour, he's not filtering like he normally would. "Once. I thought about going back home where I was needed, and my best friend died. Once, I thought about getting married and she died. Once, I met my father. And before I could even think about bringing him back to my mother, spending time as a family, learning details of my heritage, he was killed."

Questions in Arthur's eyes. But he doesn't ask them – Merlin is grateful, but knows it'll probably come sometime. If they're going to _talk_.

"That was then," Arthur says. "And maybe…"

He hesitates, and Merlin pulls away from him again, opens the towel carefully to show smeared skin but no fresh blood. Arthur grimaces but doesn't stop him – probably he's seen how Merlin's body keeps him alive willy-nilly. He pushes himself up with an elbow on the toilet, yanks his bath towel down from the bar, and wets a corner of it under the faucet. Merlin watches him lean forward to begin cleaning the blood-smear from Merlin's skin.

"When I died," Arthur says, slowly but deliberately, and Merlin is distracted from remembered pain by the proof of Arthur's life here in front of him, touch and motion and look. "You lost more than anyone. Because I wasn't just your job, I was your… friend." He gives Merlin's face a quick glance, as if to be sure Merlin won't contradict him, but Merlin's too overwhelmed to say anything. "You made me your… reason for being. You had nothing to turn to."

The truth of his words aches on Merlin's soul like ice on a bruise.

"At the risk of sounding – of being – arrogant… You've done the same ever since. You've made _waiting_ , your reason for being."

That's true. It resonates, how lost Merlin was, leaving Avalon – how confused he's been since Arthur's reappearance.

"Let's try something different, this time around?" Arthur says. He wads the damp bloodied towel in the sink – Merlin reminds himself to clean it with magic in the morning – and reaches down to grip Merlin's upper arms and pull him to his feet.

"Let's," Merlin manages.

Arthur steers him out of the bathroom. "Watch your feet, there's still glass," he says, before lowering Merlin to the futon. He lifts Merlin's feet and unfurls the blanket Merlin's been using over him. He runs a plastic cup of water in the kitchen, and brings it to balance on the carpet where Merlin can reach it.

Merlin relaxes, and looks at his arm. It's not bleeding, but there's still a red line, thick and angry, marking his skin. Not healed to an invisible scar. Maybe it's because, Merlin isn't exactly immortal anymore, now that he's not waiting. That's a sobering thought – he thinks it should stop him if he ever considers this again, over a talk with Arthur.

He listens to Arthur picking up more glass. Even, cursing him mildly – " _Dam_ mit, Merlin…"

It has a _possessive_ sound that makes Merlin smile into the dim of the unlit living room. He resolves to take Arthur's advice. To let things happen in their own time. To not try to rush for a perfection in their relationship that's probably impossible anyway. They'll bicker and argue, sometimes, maybe even fight outright. But then, always listen. Practice patience, and renew commitment. It isn't fair to make Arthur the sole source of his happiness, or his mental health. Or blame him, then, for not being enough. No one person should be _everything_ to another, even when it's Emrys and the Once and Future King. He's got to learn to make time and space in his life for other people, other pursuits, just as Arthur will…

"You all right?" Arthur says, standing by the light switch.

" 'M all right," Merlin murmurs.

The light flicks off and he can't see Arthur anymore, but he feels none of the panic - that somehow that means Arthur's disappeared. Arthur says, "Night."

Merlin corrects him. " _Good_ night." Dares to add, "Pleasant dreams." Because, _godinheaven_ , _make it so_ …

Arthur snorts, heading down the hall to the bedroom. "See you in the morning."

For tomorrow, it will be good enough. And every day following, no matter how many or how difficult they turned out to be – when trying wasn't good enough and they were both tired of it. But _together_ – maybe this would be, after all, better than he anticipated.

"Don't let the bedbugs bite!" he calls on impulse, maybe still light-headed, but lighter- _hearted_ , too.

"Geez, Merlin, it's your bed!" He hears Arthur's grin below the exasperation, and is beginning to fall to slumber even as Arthur adds, "Go to sleep. _Mer_ lin."

Merlin whispers a prayer of thanks more genuine than has ever passed his lips before – and then does just that.


End file.
